apartment

apartment living

apartment living,

dripping old insanity,

rot gap days

and no grip on tomorrow.

Tokyo terror pop!

you—hoodlum in a shining

coat, liquid teeth,

chipped white vinyl.

apartment insanity,

dripping old rot,

living gap tomorrow

and no grip on today.

hey fatty—

make a suitcase plan,

peel out muscle car

and burn to a coast.

apartment tomorrow,

dripping old today,

living gap insanity

and no grip on rot.

soggy feet stomp,

old runabout trip

to the places rooted

in the fog of yesterday.

apartment today,

dripping old plot,

gap giving candy

and no slip on tomorrow.

emerald saint

glow green, ghost

light. flicker bench

and frozen river.

department of hay,

scribbling one shot,

slap diving rot

and no script in the way.

dust farm kindred,

bump, no talk—

a screech metal.

open my door one day.

living apartment,

dripping ear insanity,

gap tooth rot

and why not tomorrow?

Cendre

2009 stuff.  No point in this, just impressions while listening to an album.  Good album, though.  I should probably say what it is, but whatever.  It's not that important.  Oh, wait, it's the title.  Rock'n'roll.




F/S

I see the night stretch

out like a razor thin wire

before me, slowly oscillating

sending shimmering light

with each tiny movement,

hundreds of waves

until even the moon is drowned

out by silver spreading glow.

then I am in a green field,

a single ancient tree in the distance

on a hill, the grass waist-high

and dancing with a subtle breeze,

swaying in slow motion

to the ghostly music of rustling,

starting in and out of unison

until finally every blade

forms ripples like water and I,

standing in that verdant sea,

begin to swim upon the moving

arms of grass.

I am now on a beach, wrapped in

a long coat looking over the

sad grey sea, settling after

the torrent of an autumn storm,

the sand wet and fading until

even it looks like the distant

water.

an empty building, falling apart,

broken glass like punched-in

smiles, the rust thick, the rust

pungent, overwhelming rust

until even the flesh takes

on the slowing creaking decay.

the sun is outside and flirts

with illuminating the failed

cathedral of industry,

but its shine cannot penetrate

the clouds of dust, the still-standing

iron sides— and the specter

of the throbbing machines

stays hidden.

I am dying and I see one face

but I do not know her.

she sings to me old songs

she says I know, but their memories

have rotted, their bones

turned to dust long ago.

the sun is going down and I fear

another night of panic, sleepless

and painful, no way to know

if that forever promise of dawn

will finally end.

Mush

This is a fun one, and completely nonsensical (unless you were in my head before that filter I apply to everything, that filter that discourages meaning from the final product, that filter that hides what I'm trying to say for God-knows-why).  Characters--  Apparently Resolution, Mush, a garbage truck.  Three parts, too.  And ending with a schizophrenic, babbling prose-ish thing.  I have no idea about this.  I do, however, remember where and when I wrote this.  But that's neither here no there.  Oh, and these are all the same piece, I just don't have an overarching title.  MPD, perhaps?  DID?  Just remember...  There is always a gap between author and work.  If I was my writing, I would be depressed all the time and probably suffering from a very serious mental illness.  At least, that's what I think, heh.  (Oh, and it's not all that nonsensical)

The Mush

The eggshell early morning euphoria,

Each car comes into town with a new shine,

Even the garbage truck glints pre-dawn like a sly wink.

Garbage truck, this is the part where things go wrong,

Why wink and so confident?

Mush, I promise friend, only bad comes when you want.

Why want when cold is no longer opposite comfort,

When darkness doesn’t hold back shine?

Ah, I know friend that when

Garbage truck voice

Goes back to rumble machinery

And its shine dissipates with fading eyes

And the big shake of dawning day ruptures

The fragility of early morning euphoria

Those words may still hold

Gloved hands from cold the skeleton

Of slain revelations.

The Alpha

Make no saint

Of twisted fake mind,

His sutras

Of morning euphoria

Are twisted false

Lights,

Lying stars in

A nothing sheet universe

Thrown up to

Cover the true cold

Steel sky.

But I know you’ll listen.

So, my friend,

The truce is off—

As that

Covered sky slips

Free from its

Masquerade

And the garbage truck

Shows true stain

Rust under new frozen

Lights,

Do not look for me

To spur you on,

My bone-face grin,

All bloody passion,

And shuffle-crush

Gait, each step

Shockwave anger,

Has left you,

Mere puddle. Good luck.

The Act

The truce is off?
Then time to shed

Old brother face,

That wicked dumb

Smile, harlequin

Shivering mask left

Dead the jaw muscles

And ugly taste

In mouth.

Free reign

The others have—

And so do I,

So do not hide

Fetal behind my

Friendly hated

Dance.

The Resolution

They’re all just aspects, ghosts-of-self and, therefore, none complete, none real beyond the realness of total self, fragments weak alone. They’ve fled, sure, and declared the truce to be null, but what can they do without Resolution to give their motives body, to give their thoughts voice? Hidden so long, powerful in their shadow movements, Resolution confused by the tugging of strings by unseen hands, now they have been revealed, now they have lost the ability to move unknown, unnoticed, to trick Resolution into thinking he has committed acts out of character. The Act, playing at sincere advisor, can no longer spread his toothy lies, the jokes unbefitting of tired soul. The Alpha, passion on the precipice of danger, will not be there to push Resolution over the edge, his brooding unpredictability curbed by his departure. Even sweet Mush, the poet suicide, cannot spread his insane lonely sadness, even if he spices it with truth and beauty. His eyes were the blindest of all.

Resolution knows what they will, why they have called off the truce. But they do not know that lowering that deep-seated barrier has more than one outcome. Their plan will backfire.

Structure

Weekdays: Old stuff, random posts.
Weekends: New stuff

This isn't meant to be a one-way deal. None of these are finished, even if they're old. Criticism welcome.

2009 must have been a shitty year-- I wrote maybe a dozen things, none of them really polished. There were a few that were closer to being finished than others. One was posted earlier. Here is one more:

new fingers

paraffin world melting
warm discolored blue hands
grasp to heat, to shape—
wax doll faces,
enclosed in car worlds,
once grim, now spring glow.

drive fast
so they don’t see you singing
or watching, catch looks
secret until your sketchbook
is full of new sun teeth.
they never look so real
in dreams.

disprove of the movie version,
only so cliché a life
can be so easy to score.
and the melting world
survives the winter
smothering blanket,
wool lifted from the heart,
beating again strong red,
and sketchbook full
only evidence, prove
truth in advertising.

the only possibility—
left frozen in faded snow
perhaps the last drop
of hopeless thoughts,
dead flower skeletons
renewed now and plucked
by new fingers,
you—
waning rattle.

they will gladly place
your cast-off petals
in their thawing hair.